


Too Many What Ifs (And Not Enough Whens)

by Emma_Please



Series: Displaced [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Awesome Sheriff Stilinski, BAMF Stiles, Dimension Travel, Everyone Is Alive, Everyone is nice, F/F, F/M, Feels, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Multi, Nice Derek Hale, Other, Slow Burn, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles is a Mess, but mostly everyone, but then again can you blame him, cause I live for that shit, like seriously, mentions of abuse, more of a derek stiles friendship, ok so not everyone, stiles is fucked, wait a while there will definitely be a Derek version
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 21:59:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14602608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma_Please/pseuds/Emma_Please
Summary: Stiles spends the first week after waking up in the hospital, after apparently having a seizure, freaking out. He asks a multitude of different, hysterical questions that make his dad eye him worriedly. Sometimes Stiles sees him holding the phone, god-knows-how-many seconds away from calling the hospital and having Stiles recommitted.Stiles spends the second week freaking out Scott and cursing Deaton with all the strength he has. Scott looks at him weirdly, specifically when Stiles looks him straight in the eyes and asks him, very seriously,“Have you, by any chance, been bitten by a werewolf in the middle of the night after finding half of a corpse?”Scott gives him a long, blank stare, before shrilly responding, “Stiles, what the hell?!”Stiles takes that as a firm, ‘No’. It probably doesn’t say anything about Stiles’ life when that’s the highlight of his week.Or in which Stiles' world has gone to shit and thus the universe plays genie and plops him into another one so Stiles can fix it the hell up.





	Too Many What Ifs (And Not Enough Whens)

**Author's Note:**

> sooooo this happened. Tbh idk what I was even thinking all i know is that there is a distinct lack of dimension traveling fics and imma just go ahead and add this in there. Also, there's probs gonna be a Derek version of this as well because can you imagine the painnn. Also, I'm am definitely diverging from canon here, mostly because I'm unfamiliar with the new seasons but also because I just like incorporating my own things into this.  
> This focuses a lot on friendship and thus romance will be limited but there will be some form of action.  
> Anyways, enjoy. Any mistakes are my own so feel free to correct me just be nice tho. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Don't own Teen Wolf

The kid’s gaping, Derek notices, and unattractively at that. He is bug-eyed, his hair is a wild mess, and Derek’s just about to start walking away when the kid murmurs.

“You don’t have any stubble.” If anything, his eyes go even more bug-eyed. His voice begins to edge into hysteria, “And the leather jacket, where’s the leather jacket?”

Derek’s honestly starting to get worried when the kid’s eyes go even more glazed and he blinks rapidly as if not quite believing that Derek looks like a respectable human being and he’s the one who’s being weird.

Now, when Derek’s about ready to reach out and steady the kid (maybe shake some sense into him), Laura bounces out of the store, carrying bundles of grocery bags and whistling a merry tune. The kid’s eyes go even more glazed, he sways side to side, and his open mouth looks so uncomfortably wide Derek has the urge to reach over and shut it.

His sister steps next to him, flicks her eyes over to the kid, and asks, “Who’s your new friend, Derek?”

When he doesn’t say anything, she turns fully, taking in the kid. Said kid flinches back, as if he’s been struck, hard. He takes a long, good look at Laura.

Then says, “Oh my fucking God, Deaton, you dick!” Before bolting out of the parking lot, looking as if the hounds of hell were just at his heels.

Derek can still hear him whispering “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!” while panting. The stench of medicine trails after him. 

“You sure do attract a lot of crazies, Derek,” Laura comments bleakly.

“Shut up.” 

* * *

Stiles spends the first week after waking up in the hospital, after apparently having a seizure, freaking out. He asks a multitude of different, hysterical questions that make his dad eye him worriedly. Sometimes Stiles sees him holding the phone, god-knows-how-many seconds away from calling the hospital and having Stiles recommitted.

Stiles spends the second week freaking out Scott and cursing Deaton with all the strength he has. Scott looks at him weirdly, specifically when Stiles looks him straight in the eyes and asks him, very seriously,

“Have you, by any chance, been bitten by a werewolf in the middle of the night after finding half of a corpse?”

Scott gives him a long, blank stare, before shrilly responding, “Stiles, what the hell?!”

Stiles takes that as a firm, ‘No’. It probably doesn’t say anything about Stiles’ life when that’s the highlight of his week.

Stiles spends the third week pacing back and forth near the Hale house and muttering the pros and cons of storming up to the door and knocking.

Pro: He’d get some answers.

Con: They might have him committed to a mental asylum. Or they’d straight up kill him, mafia style.

And Stiles would very much like to live and not be swimming with the fishes. Plus, his dad would be sad.

They probably know he’s there, enhances senses and all that shit. He doesn’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that they haven’t come outside and shooed him away.

Stiles spends the fourth week freaking out about the fact that Derek I-slam-people-into-walls-and-wear-leather-and-have-stubble Hale is… is… nice. Stiles genuinely saw him smiling just a week ago, and the Derek Stiles knows never smiles unless the stars have aligned and maybe some distant planet has blown up.

That, more than anything, confirms that Stiles has been transported to some alternate dimension.

That and the tiny little black book that came with him. Deaton had given it to him, and against his inner distrust, Stiles had chosen to take it. Stiles would like to blame Deaton, but really, he should have known better. Also, the shifty-eyed look Deaton had given him probably should have rung some warning bell in Stiles’ brain that signaled “Warning, warning, danger, danger! Do not trust cryptic ass druid!”

So… yeah.

Stiles makes his move to confront Deaton in the fifth week. It’s not his best timing, really.

* * *

  
There’s been a recent influx of supernatural creatures and mom has dragged them over to Deaton’s clinic-lair-hideout thing. Derek, personally, hadn’t wanted to go, but Talia Hale had given him a sharp look and Derek had tucked his head and conceded. He’d given Laura a good shove for snickering at him.

Currently, Deaton and Talia are talking in a corner, while Peter’s wandered off some time ago when all his ridiculous suggestions had been denied.

Derek turns away to look at some book Deaton has splayed across the table. It’s written in a whole other language and roughly the size of Derek’s head. Off to the side, Laura’s gazing at some fish with passing interest. She’d been listening in intently (“I’m next Alpha, Derek, I have to know what I’m doing!”) but apparently the conversation wasn’t interesting enough to hold her attention.

And Derek doesn’t even want to know what Uncle Peter is doing at the moment. He’s probably blown something up; which, really, isn’t the worst he can do.

The door flings open and Derek stiffens at the smell, flitting his head at the same time as Laura to watch as The Kid (yes, there are italics) storms over to Deaton, completely ignoring all of the werewolves in the clinic.

The kid keeps going ‘till he’s straight in Deaton’s face and says,“Take the book, you said. It’ll help you, you said. It’s perfectly safe, you said!” The kid’s voice grows progressively higher as he goes on. Then, he slams something down on the counter.

“Deaton, why are you always lying to me?!”

For, definitely not the first time, Derek wonders if Deaton ever gets shocked because right now, all he’s done is raise an eyebrow and pick up the little black book the kid had slammed down.

“I’m certain I didn’t give you this book, so who might you be?” Deaton asks calmly.

The kid heaves a sigh and shakes his head. It’s the look of someone who’s had to suffer through Deaton’s cryptic attitude for a long time; Derek’s seen that look before on his mom’s face.

“Stiles,” huffs the kid, “Stiles Stilinski. I’m blaming this all on you, by the way. Only you would give me a book that sends me to an alternate dimension.”

Derek blinks. Blinks again. And then turns to stare at Laura with the same incredulous, ‘What the fuck?’ face.

Alternate Dimension.

Is this kid okay? Is he sane? Has he somehow broken out of an asylum and no one’s noticed?

Mom decides to butt in and question (read: interrogate) Deaton. “Deaton, what’s he talking about?”

The newly christened Stiles stiffens, turning robotically towards Talia and only now noticing that he and Deaton aren’t the only ones in the clinic. Stiles has the deer in headlights look down pat and Derek vaguely wonders if he’s practiced that look in the mirror.

Stiles nods at Talia and squeaks, “Alpha Hale.”

Uncle Peter makes a low, questioning sound and Derek blinks. So, he knows they’re werewolves, and he knows mom’s the Alpha.

Talia’s eyebrow quirks but she nods back, sending another probing look towards a quiet, contemplative Deaton, who’s flipping through the little black book and humming to himself.

“A spell book,” He says at last. “And exactly like the one I have. It even has my initials in it. So, you’re from an alternate dimension?”

Stiles nods shakily, “I kind of figured it out because things are still similar but there’s some… some big changes.” He stops before tilting his head in Derek’s general direction. “Also, he doesn’t have stubble. And he’s nice.”

Derek takes on a disgruntled look; he can be nice. Also, Laura and Matt would never let him live it down if he grew stubble. The teasing would go on for the rest of eternity.

The things that really take root in his mind, however, is the fact that this kid knows him- pretty well if his words are anything to go by. If he is from an alternate dimension (which Derek’s still iffy about), Derek worries for his counterpart, because he’s seen this kid pacing outside their house muttering something about mafias and fishes and Derek doesn’t think he’s crazy enough to associate with that.

“Which spell did you use?” Deaton asks, pushing off the counter to go and grab his reading glasses.

Stiles gives him a strange look while automatically replying, “Page 30, incantation 5.”

Deaton methodically flips through the book and nods, shutting the book promptly as if everything’s been explained, which really, it hasn’t.

“Why’d you use it?”

Stiles huffs, eyes flitting over towards Derek, and strangely enough, Peter. “Supernatural overload. People were dying and we had to do something.”

There’s a blip in his heart, a shift in his scent; a half-truth, there but not truly.

“We?”

At this, Stiles’ head ducks down, and he stares forlornly at the floor. “The pack.”

“Hale pack?” Talia intones, curious.

“No,” Stiles’ breath comes out strangled. “Not the Hale pack.”

A tense silence falls like a blanket over the company, broken only by Peter straightforward question.

“Then which pack?”

Stiles’ eyes shutter, something like grief newly setting in, like he’s had an epiphany, or his heart been broken with terrible news. Derek shivers, unable to look away from the sight of the young man’s hunched form, smells like fear and anguish and guilt overlaying the room thickly. Somewhere behind him, Laura chokes on her breath.

Deaton’s voice cuts through the onslaught of emotion like a hot knife through butter.

“I believe Mr. Stilinski has been through enough for one day, Alpha Hale. A meeting can be appointed later, I’m sure.”

The grateful look Stiles shoots Deaton is enough to stop Talia from saying anything. Instead, she nods, and Stiles flees the clinic, driving away with hitched sobs stuck in his throat and chest. The thud, thud of his heart is like a drum in Derek’s ears, vibrating through his body with an intensity that frightens him.

He goes through the rest of the meeting in a stupor, locked in a haze of grief that isn’t even his. 

* * *

  
Stiles hadn’t realized it when he’d woken up, or even in the ensuing weeks, but all the people that used to be dead, aren’t.

Of course, they aren’t dead. In this universe things don’t fall into ruins; innocent high school students aren’t killed left and right. It hadn’t sunk in before, because really the only people Stiles had come across and spoken to were Scott and dad, both of whom used to be alive back in his world. Weary, but alive still.

Here, he’s been subconsciously ignoring all the dead people. He’s put himself in a frame of mind where only one thing matters and until he’s dealt with that one thing, everything else will be put on a backburner. Really, it’s not his style to push everything back; he’s always been a multitasking kind of guy.

Apparently, that’s not the case when all his guilt and grief is brought back up around him. Stiles doesn’t want to look at all these students, alive and happy, only to see their corpses, strewn across the town in various position.

He can’t stop thinking about it now, when it’s pushed and shoved its way back into his mind, stubbornly digging its heels into his brain when he tries to think of something else.

Scott’s getting suspicious, especially when Stiles takes one look at Lydia and bolts for the other direction, the echo of a scream long forgotten ringing in his ears. Scott gives him that same worried slash suspicious look and, bless him, doesn’t ask any questions. Bolting at the sight of Lydia, Stiles’ one and only love (not true, anymore, but Scott doesn’t know that), is definitely not regular Stiles behavior.

Then again, Stiles doesn’t know what regular Stiles behavior is in this universe. That’s proven when Stiles brings his dad lunch and in turn gets a weird look that makes him feel slightly insulted. Frankly, Stiles is ashamed of his other self for not taking more care of his dad’s health. God knows the man would eat himself into an early grave if he could. Stiles also, strangely, finds a pair of glasses sitting innocently on his bedside. For some weird, inexplicable reason, they make him choke up.

One day, in the middle of class, a thought strikes Stiles with the intensity of a storm: what happened to other Stiles? Because surely there was another Stiles, it’s obvious, but what happened to him? There are imprints of him, left all over the place, a person different and yet remarkably the same as himself.

Now he’s gone. Maybe he’s in Stiles original universe, and if so, he pity’s the guy; after all, Stiles used that spell for a reason. He knows he didn’t steal other his’ body. All the scars have remained; the ones from the Nogitsune and pixies and the gnomes and the humans. So, either he’s sent the guy to another universe, or… or he’s killed him.

Bile rises sharply in his throat after that, and he darts up, throwing a quick “Bathroom” to the teacher before he veers sharply to the left and spends the rest of the hour heaving, the thoughts ‘I’ve killed him, I’ve killed him! Oh my fucking Hell, I’ve killed him!’ plaguing him.

The sad thing is, it’s not the thought of killing that makes Stiles choke; it’s the thought that he’s stolen this Noah Stilinski’s son. And that, that is absolutely unforgivable because he is not the son he’s supposed to be and his dad deserves better, no matter the universe.

Stiles makes sure to keep himself from thinking about it too hard.

A few days later, Stiles spots Erica limping down the hall, looking pale and shaken and nothing like the strong emboldened woman- girl- she had been. That same day, he spots Boyd sitting alone in the cafeteria, hunched to make himself look smaller, and Isaac lingering back, drawn up tense, with fading bruises running along his skin like tattoos. It makes him sick, to see them all looking like they have no reason to live as if they’re just passing through the motions because it makes other people happy. He wants to help them, to give them a chance at a happy life.

He starts with Boyd. It’s easy enough to drag Scott over to Boyd’s table in the cafeteria and sit with him. The other boy ignores them up until Stiles strikes up a conversation and tries to convince him that his love for crime documentaries isn’t because he’s planning to murder someone and needs to know how to cover it up. Scott vehemently protests, and Boyd gives them both a bleak look.

“Why are you sitting with me?”

“Because we’re friends now,” Stiles answer with his own cheerful tone, before nonchalantly changing the subject. “You  
wanna come over and play video games?”

Boyd’s still silent, but at the end of the day, when Stiles bounces up to him, he follows them back to Stiles’ house and promptly joins them in getting high on pizza. Sheriff Stilinski comes home, takes one look at them and sighs defeatedly before saying,

“Do I at least get to eat pizza?”

“No!” Crows Stiles, waggling a finger in his dad’s direction like he’s a child instead of a fully-grown man carrying a gun. Sheriff scowls but concedes in the end.

Stiles considers the day to be a success.

Erica and Isaac are trickier. He could get enough evidence to send Isaac’s dad to jail- or he could kill him, either one works. Stiles is trying not to murder people, though, so that one’s out of the question (for now). Erica’s seizures are more difficult, but Stiles isn’t sure about them just yet. The least he can do now is offer them his friendship. They need to trust him before he tries to help them.

He knows that first, he’s going to have to start with Erica, and through her, he’ll get Isaac. It’ll be kind of easy because of Erica’s crush on him; don’t get him wrong, he’s not going to lead her on romantically only to break her heart, he just wants to approach in a way that makes it clear he’s her friend and only a friend.

The opportunity comes when Erica has a seizure in class and she ends up in the hospital. It’s horrifying when everyone goes back to acting like nothing happened. Stiles clenches his hands into fists and gnashes his teeth together, seething. Scott sends him a worried look but Stiles can also see the hints of anger in his features.

The hospital visit goes well, with Stiles buying flowers and a sarcastic get well card that he knows Erica will appreciate. She eyes him cautiously when he first enters, but when Stiles hands her the items before plopping down into one of the chairs and starts talking to her animatedly about his day, her eyes soften and she begins replying to him.

After that it’s easy. Stiles walks with her from classes and pairs up with her sometimes for projects. He drags her over to their designated spot during lunch and promptly introduces her to Scott and Boyd, the former who welcomes her happily and the latter who simply nods. Erica nods shyly at first before blossoming, engaged in the conversation happily.

One day, when they’re walking to their last class, Stiles turns abruptly to her, thinking about how he, Scott, and Boyd had played video games after school.

“Hey, you wanna do something after school?”

Erica blinks, clearly startled, but answers back. “Like what?”

“I don’t know, it’s your choice. What do you do for fun?”

The girl bites her lip and looks at him in her peripheral vision, before replying hesitantly, “Sometimes I go horse riding…”

Stiles, who hadn’t known that, blinks in confusion before beaming. “Awesome! Alright, I’ll tell Scott and you get Boyd.”

The eager smile Erica sends him is enough to leave Stiles content for the rest of the day.

The horse riding goes well, though Scott almost gets kicked twice and all the horses seemingly flock towards Boyd, and if Stiles is left just a little bruised from falling, he ignores it in favor of the happiness radiating around him.

All that’s left is Isaac, who still shows up to classes bruised and battered. Stiles tries hard to ignore the murderous intent building in his gut at Isaac’s father but it’s tremendously difficult. He subtly nudges Scott in Isaac’s direction, though from the look Scott sends him it isn’t subtle at all. Extremely slowly, Scott becomes familiar with Isaac through Lacrosse, which Stiles is no longer in.

It is Stiles, however, who finds Isaac leaning heavily against the lockers after school, holding his stomach like he’s in pain and panting harshly. It takes a lot of convincing to get Isaac to let him help, let alone getting him to come home with Stiles so he can patch up his injuries.

Isaac eyes him relentlessly the whole way, huddling against the car door like it’s his only hope. Stiles, mercifully, decides to stay quiet.

When they get to the house, Stiles gently sits Isaac down, ignorant to his questioning looks, and proceeds to get some ointment to rub on his bruises.

“Okay, shirt up.”

He doesn’t realize it has gone dead silent until he faces Isaac again, only to see him staring at him with incredulous eyes. It’s only then that he realizes what Isaac might be thinking.

“No!” Stiles says frantically, and it’s a testament to how confused Isaac is that he doesn’t even flinch at the slight increase in volume. “That’s not what I meant! I meant, like, lift your shirt up so I could put the ointment on, not… that!”

Isaac stares at him for a long moment before pressing himself into the couch and raising his shirt hesitantly. Stiles settles next to him and winces at the yellow-green bruise marring Isaac’s pale skin. He rubs the ointment in with light, experienced fingers, making sure not to press too hard.

And what happens next, Stiles will use as his evidence to prove that he was born under an unlucky star: his dad comes home.

His dad comes home and finds him sitting there with his fingers on Isaac’s bare stomach, a deer in headlights look on both of their faces.

“Stiles…” Noah says reproachfully.

Said boy flings himself out of his seat and vehemently explains, pointing at Isaac’s bruises and the ointment as if saying ‘See, see, I’m right!’

Noah hushes him with waved hand and instead looks to Isaac, who presses himself so much further into the couch that Stiles is afraid they’re going to merge as one.

“How’d you get those bruises?” And oh, Stiles grimaces, that’s his sheriff’s voice right there.

Isaac goes stiff at the question, eyes flitting back and forth like he’s searching for an answer in the Stilinski living room.

“Dad, could I talk to Isaac quick?” Stiles interrupts.

Noah’s brows pull together, a sure sign he’s going to refuse but he looks at Stiles’ face and goes still. He must see something there because after a moment he nods and meanders into the kitchen.

Stiles watches him leave before whirling around, sitting right next to Isaac, and saying “We need to tell my dad you’re being abused.”

Isaac goes dreadfully still, turning mechanically towards him. Stiles’ grim expression doesn’t ease up, not even in the face of Isaac’s grief, no matter how much he wants to.

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t lie to me, Isaac. You think a sheriff’s son wouldn’t know what abuse looks like?”

In truth, that’s only part of it. Stiles knows what abuse looks like because of his dad, yes, but also because he’s seen personally what people become like, after being abused, and while it isn’t always telling, it does leave a mark.

“I can’t,” Isaac gasps in front of him, gripping harshly at his hair. “I can’t. God, the thing’s he could do to me and no one would believe me, and… and it could get worse. Stiles, please, Jackson already tried, please don’t do this.”

It’s hard to stand stern against the onslaught of emotion Isaac bleeds but Stiles knows that this is what’s best for the other boy and he’s going to help him. Jackson might’ve tried, sure, but Stiles actually knows what he’s doing.

“Dad!”

At the call, Isaac flings himself at Stiles, latching onto his shirt and pleading, looking up at him with teary, red eyes. Stiles places a scarred hand gently on Isaac’s own clenched one and says, warmly,

“We’re friends, Isaac and friends don’t let each other hurt.”

Isaac’s grip slackens and that same dreaded look of longing seeps into his eyes before he nods and pulls away.

“Okay,” He mutters, wiping roughly at his tears. “Okay.”

Noah watches them but gratefully doesn’t mention the scene that he’s just seen play out in front of him, the devastation permeating off Isaac is enough to clog the questions in his throat.

And so Isaac speaks and trembles and Noah’s face whitens, pale enough that the anger in his eyes make them look darkened. When Isaac finishes, collapsing against the couch, drained to the bone, Noah grips their shoulders, stares them straight in the eyes and nods.

It’s enough to say what words cannot. 

* * *

Talia Hale leans further into plush velvet behind her and heaves a sigh. Her bright blue-green eyes roll pleadingly towards the sky as if asking for divine power and wisdom. Sadly, her request is denied and she turns her eyes to the two guilty children sitting in front of her, shifting uncomfortably in the face of their mother’s disappointment.

“Tell me, Laura, why you and your brother decided that stalking the Sheriff’s son was a good idea?”

Laura flinches and ducks her head, ashamed as her Alpha and mother lays onto her stern eyes. Talia holds firm against the pitiful figure her daughter makes, unwillingly to let her off scot-free; there are consequences, and as potential Alpha material, Laura has to bear those consequences.

“Fine then. Seeing as your sister is being quiet all of a sudden, why don’t you tell me, Derek?”

Derek’s eyes fly up to hers for a quarter of a second before they duck down again. Out of all her children, it is Derek who embodies quiet and unassuming, always managing somehow to fit into the background. Maybe, Talia thinks shamefully, that some of it is her fault. She’s focused on Laura the most, training and readying her, while Derek had gone about with regular training and regular education, a shadow in the back.

“None of my children are answering me,” Talia says patiently, “And I still have an angry sheriff on my hands questioning me.”

The minutes tick by, and Talia can see Laura and Derek sending each other very indiscreet looks. Her patience isn’t infinite, in fact, she’s the most impatient one in the family, barring any of the children. It’s always been Peter who’s had the unshakable patience- it shows because he’s been standing behind the door since she started this interrogation and not once has he strayed.

“Look,” She snaps. “Stiles Stilinski isn’t pressing charges- though God knows he deserves to- his father is just angry enough for it to become a problem.”

At this Laura breaks and looks up, eyes begging, as she says, “Mom, please- just… calm down, okay? We just… we were curious?”

And Talia Hale, mother of far too many children and strict Alpha, breaks at that one simple word: curious.

“Curious. You were curious. You stalked a poor boy because you were curious?! Utter ridiculousness, honestly, I expected better from you two! If I were a nicer woman you’d get off with just a grounding, but this… oh, you’ll beg for mercy when I’m done with you.”

Out in the hall, hidden behind a thick mahogany door, Peter Hale cackles diabolically over the sound of Laura and Derek’s whimpers of fear and shame.

It is a truly beautiful sight. 

* * *

  
Noah Stilinski, the father of one unruly Stiles Stilinski, is _furious_.

The Hale kids, perfectly polite and from a respectable family, had been stalking his son. Not even just following, oh no, but apparently trying to break in through his window.

And Stiles, his strange lovable kid, isn’t even scared or mad. Instead, the kid’s laughing like a maniac and spinning, quite evilly in Noah’s opinion, in his chair. Noah can still hear Stiles muttering ‘always windows with that one, oh my god!’ At times like these, Noah wants to put his head in his hands and ask his late wife why it was their son that turned into a practical nut job.

“Why, in the name of everything good in the world, do you not want to press charges?” Noah rubs a hand tiredly over his face and mentally prepares himself for the amazing answer he knows he’s going to get.

Stiles, who’s still spinning evilly, laughs and throws his arms jubilantly into the air. “Dad, padre, dad-io…”

“Please just get on with it.”

“Don’t you see this is perfect? Now, since they’ve approached me first and in the worst way possible, I have a leg up here.”

And yeah, maybe Noah should have mentally prepared a bit more.

“How?”

“Because if I know Talia Hale, which I don’t really, then she’ll feel responsible and will be willing to follow through with any of my requests.”

“And such requests would be…”

“Unlimited use of their library, obviously.”

Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable. Any other kid would file charges and be at least mildly afraid, but no, Noah’s kid decides that this is the perfect opportunity to get into someone’s library.

Really, he shouldn’t be surprised.

Ever since Stiles had suffered from those sudden seizures and woken up he’s been a little strange. His son has been bringing him lunch ever since waking up and its damn good lunch at that, which begs the question of where Stiles learned to cook.

The new things have also been the scars. Dozens upon dozens of them, small and large, littered Stiles’ body like he’d been born with them. Noah had stumbled upon this when he’s accidentally walked in on Stiles changing.

It had felt like time had frozen and his son hadn’t even seemed surprised when Noah had gripped his shoulders and begged him about how he’d gotten those scars.

“Who did this? Stiles, tell me who did this to you. Please, just…”

And Stiles, his wonderfully unruly son, had looked him straight in the eyes and whispered out a response that Noah didn’t think he was supposed to have heard.

“Lots of people, a long time ago. It's fine, dad… _I’m fine_.”

There is no clear-cut way to interpret that and frankly, Noah doesn’t know if he knows how to. The vacant, absent look in Stiles’ eyes ties up his tongue and makes him feel as if there’s cotton muffling his throat.

So Noah leaves it alone, despite how badly he wants to shout himself hoarse and interrogate every person in town. Stiles has always been a mysterious child- Noah can remember the time when Stiles was in his sophomore year and his entire focus was poured into trying to hack into things using shoddy YouTube videos.

He really should look into getting his son some professional help. 

* * *

  
“So how’d you get roped into the Stiles Stilinski manipulation-friendship?” Boyd asks absentmindedly as he shoves a fry into his mouth.

Isaac shrugs tightly, still a little unused to sitting and hanging out with other people without having to be afraid.

“To be honest, I just woke up one day and Stiles wouldn’t leave me alone.”

It’s obviously not the truth but as far as Isaac’s concerned it should be.

“Yeah he does that,” Erica chimes in, lounging back languidly. “I figure once he’s fond of you there’s really no way you can get him to go away. Still, we could do a lot worse than Stiles.”

At that Isaac nods truthfully, letting himself loosen up to match Erica and Boyd. Lying next to them, Scott shovels food into his mouth and seldom takes his eyes off the T.V, although he does hum in agreement various times.

The surrealism Isaac feels cannot even be put into words. Here he is, an abused introvert, relaxing with others and eating junk food without having to worry about making it home on time. Erica and Boyd had taken him in fairly quickly, and Scott didn’t seem to have any qualms about letting Isaac lounge around in his house.

Stiles, the subject of their current conversation, isn’t there with them. He’d declined their request, explaining:

“There’s something I gotta do today and it can’t wait.” The look in Stiles’ eyes makes apprehension rise rapidly in Isaac and he has to wonder how Scott survived so many years with this boy. “Oh, and Isaac? Don’t forget about the fact that we’re gonna do something you like soon. Be prepared!”

Isaac can’t deny the warmth and affection Stiles’ words spread in him. 

* * *

  
This is it, Stiles thinks, this is me walking into the wolves den.

Huffing out a breath and shaking his limbs haphazardly, Stiles looks at the immaculate door of the Hale house and lets himself bask in the fact that after so many years, he is finally going to be seeing the Hale library in her original form.

It’s so exciting he almost wants to puke. He won’t, though, because one it would be gross and two Talia Hale might actually sever his head from his body for ruining her lovely porch.

From the other side of the door, there’s a scuffling sound and a voice whispering protests heatedly before the door opens and Peter Hale stands in the doorway. He gestures loosely with his hand and grins like a wolf at Stiles.

“Nice to finally meet The Boy,” Peter says, ignoring the sounds of Derek and Laura’s whimpers behind him.

Stiles peeks around him but answers back instantly,

“Capitalized, huh? I’m gonna be honest here man, I feel special.”

And, if it’s even remotely possible, Peter’s grin gets wider until it looks like it hurts. “Well, you can thank your stalkers- I mean my niece and nephew.”

There a smile on his face before Stiles even realizes it and it just makes him miss his banter with Peter even more. The man might've been an asshole but he’d been an asshole Stiles could relate to on a sarcastic level.

“Stop antagonizing the boy, Peter.” A sharp voice cuts through and Talia Hale’s powerful form takes up the doorway. Her mere presence is enough for Stiles to straighten- from the corner of his eye he can see Peter doing the same.

Electric blue eyes size him up, flicking up and down in such a way that Stiles wants to cover himself like a blushing virgin, which he is not, thank you very much. Laura and Derek continue staying out of sight- Stiles can still hear their whimpers of fear and internally he laughs like a villain at the thought of tough “I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth, Stiles, so God help me” Derek Hale getting scolded by his mother.

It also, and Stiles won’t admit this, makes something inside him ache at the thought of Derek with his long-dead mother.

“Well, come inside then.”

The house that Stiles stands in now is hauntingly different than the charred one he’d stood in so long ago. Pictures are framed along the walls and the sounds of clattering arise from the kitchen, accompanied by children’s laughter and a stern male voice that’s tinged with fondness.

In the corner of the living room, sitting in an armchair that looks like something out of a Victorian castle, is an aged woman. Frail hands knit back and forth with dizzying speed while squinted eyes never move away from the TV.

“Grandma Norma,” Peter whispers into his ear. “I wouldn’t mind her if I were you- she’s awfully claw-happy these days.”

“Just because I’m old don’t think I won’t whip you into shape, boy!” Grandma Norma croaks back, laughing wildly.

Talia discreetly rolls her eyes but dutifully shows Stiles the way to the library, which veers off sharply to the right and is sequestered in a cozy little corner. Grand windows let in rays of light, and standing there, surrounded by what is clearly book heaven, Stiles drops to his knees at the greatness of it all and lets the dramatic music swell to a crescendo in his mind.

Peter, of course, is the one to break his moment. “The look of sheer love on his face is creeping me out, so if I were you, dear sister, I’d make sure he doesn’t try to have sex with the books.”

Yep, moment over.

Behind them, Laura makes retching sounds and Derek mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “How can you even have sex with books? Like… what goes where?”

Stiles, however, is happy enough to ignore the shit show going on behind him and focus on the beauty that is the Hale library, filled to the brim with troves of information that he is is all too willing to take in.

He clambers to his feet and pays no mind to Talia scolding Peter in the background. The shelves that wind around him have titles of varying sizes and titles, some in English and others in languages Stiles thinks people seldom use anymore.

There is only one book that Stiles is looking for, however, and the peculiar buzzing in the air heightens around him, tugging and pulling at him like an impatient child would to a complacent parent.

Come, it whispers enticingly, seductively. Come and we will show you what you seek

And so Stiles, ever the reckless fool, lets it beckon him with its allure. He finds the book nestled lovingly into a corner near the high arched windows. Bathed half in light and half in the shadows, it looks exactly as it had in the dreams following the seizures he’d unknowingly suffered.

Still standing at the entrance all the Hale’s are silent, watching as Stiles reaches out and holds the book in his hands with reverence. Something in the way he moves, slow but purposeful, is a testament to his insistence in wanting to use their library.

To the younger man the world has narrowed down into tunnel vision; the red visage of the book in front of him is darker than he would have imagined it. The title, emboldened in Latin, gleams with a sharp pulse of magic, almost a heartbeat in its own right.

Gently sitting himself down onto the floor, Stiles opens the book- The Journal of Marion Zabette, first documentation of dimension traveling and Spark studies- and loses himself in the crisp, yellow with age papers that are inscribed with curling Latin figures.

Written in cursive, on the first page, is “To my beloved Annette Hale, whom I know shall cherish this with the entirety of her fierce, beautiful heart.” 

* * *

  
“He still here?” Markus, the oldest son of Talia Hale, asks, peering around Derek to look at Stiles.

“Clearly,” Laura butts in, hip checking Derek out of the way with just enough force to send him stumbling. “He isn’t going to be leaving any time soon; look at the size of that book.”

Derek rubs his hip, even though it doesn’t really hurt, and sends a glare Laura’s way. “What’s he even reading?”

Laura waves a hand and unabashedly stares at Stiles’ back. “Some old diary that we’ve had for, like, years.”

Markus shrugs but doesn’t control his staring either, while little Gracie peers from behind his leg, half hiding and half blatant. None of them are particularly subtle, despite the absolute dressing down Talia had given Laura and Derek.

Peter still won’t stop making comments about how if Stiles were normal they’d have restraining orders.

Joseph, their father, rushes by and shoos them away from Stiles, far too polite to have his kids keep staring at their guest.

“I think you’ve done enough staring,” He says pointedly, sending a significant look towards Derek and Laura. “And he’ll leave when he needs to, ok?”

They all nod in agreement and let themselves be ferried away into the living room.

About an hour later Stiles pads into the room, still holding onto the book. He pauses in front of Talia.

“Can I take this home with me?”

Talia nods, eyes trailing after him as he ambles away, hands curled around the journal protectively.

The last they hear before the door slams shut is:

“Deaton, why do you keep breaking my fucking heart?!”

Little Gracie, who’s sprawled out near her mother, looks up and asks bluntly, “What does fucking mean?” 

* * *

  
If Stiles didn’t know any better, he’d say Deaton is trying to annoy him, which mind you, is probably not far from the truth. If there’s one thing Deaton’s good at, it’s subtly pushing people towards insanity with them being none the wiser.

Stiles knows Deaton, though, and so the man’s tricks aren’t going to work like they once had. Deaton can drop as many fancy words into the conversation as he wants, Stiles is not participating in some voodoo magic to go back to his universe.

The druid must see the look on his face though because the other man suddenly looks exasperated. “Stiles, I know that you know the likelihood of being able to dimension travel is null and void, so stop with the sulky looks and listen to me.”

“You used the spell, I’m certain of that, but when it comes to a sparks magic it comes entirely from the earth. You don’t need fancy incantations or rituals, you need enough belief that you could move a mountain if you so wished, Stiles.”

“So what- I wished to come here? And the earth decided to play Genie and grant my wish?”

“Maybe not deliberately, no, but a part of you must have known it was the last chance you had. Stiles… I don’t think you have enough training to use the spell from my book, so how you got here- that’s all you.”

Roughly running a hand through his hair, Stiles nods, slumping back beneath the pile of books stacked around him.

“What do I do?”

The silence is stifling, but then Deaton is crouching in front of him and wearing a kind smile that Stiles has never seen before on him.

“Build a life. This Stiles, he’s dead, there’s nothing we can do about that. But you… you’re here, you could start new, wash away whatever sins you may have.”

“What if I can’t get rid of them?”

“Stiles, sometimes we don’t need to get rid of our sins, we just need to accept them. Learn, understand, and accept. Only then will we be able to move on.”

Before he can stop it, a wet chuckle escapes him, and Stiles looks up at Deaton with a wry grin. “You know, you’re surprisingly less cryptic than my Deaton.”

A warm hand wraps around his arm and Deaton tugs him up and away from the books Stiles had been drowning himself in.

“I’ll admit, I’m not the most straightforward of people, but I’ve learned to be.” A pensive look of sadness crosses Deaton’s face and Stiles has the sudden urge to reach forward and lay a commiserating hand on the man’s shoulder. “I want to help you, Stiles, and if being blunt is what you need then I’ll do it.”

Stiles nods, leaning into the man gratefully, before bending down to grab the journal he’d brought with him.

“Marion Zabette dimension traveled,” Deaton hums in response, slotting books back into his monstrous shelves. “But she wasn’t a spark.”

For all that Deaton may act unassuming, the man’s mind is sharper than a knife and it doesn’t take him long to understand what Stiles’ asking. “No, she wasn’t a spark, but she became obsessed with sparks after her travel. You have to understand, Stiles, that she was a skilled user of magic who dedicated every waking moment to understanding the belief behind it.”

“Why did she stop?”

“She never really stopped but for the most part I think it was because she fell in love.”

Nodding, Stiles runs a hand down the crisp yellow pages of the journal and lets his eyes fall shut as the age-old magic thrums in his veins. “Did she fall in love with Anette Hale?”

“Yes,” With quick, decisive movements, Deaton pulls out a book from the shelf; an album. “Werewolves and magic users didn’t intermingle aside from business, so the fact that they got along was astonishing. Some people, the fantasizers if you will, used to say that Marion Zabette’s magic brought her here for Anette Hale.”

After a few second of quickly flicking the pages, Deaton stops sharply before delicately grasping the page between his fingers. There is one giant picture that takes up a majority of the page; two young women with entwined hands.

Deaton taps the woman on the right, who has tightly pulled back hair and a mischievous smile hinting her lip.

“Anette Hale,” Pointing the woman at the right with light hair and a slight frown worrying her lips. “Marion Zabette.”

“She doesn’t look very happy.”

“Marion Zabette wasn’t keen on being photographed, if only because she believed it could have been used against her.”

“Why would someone use a photo against her?” Stiles asks, befuddled.

“Some druid councils didn’t agree with dimension traveling- they believed it to be meddling with an order that should not be messed with.”

Stiles huffs, nodding in acknowledgment. Druid councils are nosy little fuckers who spend the majority of their time nit-picking every magical encounter while doing nothing as they sit on their asses. It was like that before, back in Stiles’ world, and it seems nothing has changed here.

Nonetheless, Marion Zabette had survived long, torturous years arguing against them. Stiles can’t say if that makes her a badass or a masochist but he admires her all the same.

This does, however, present a problem; multiple councils have sensors stationed about, and the moment the magic of the area warps, creating a pocket space to fill in with new magic, the councils are informed. Stiles has painted a target on his back, bright and glaring, which means he’ll either have to lay low or figure out a way to mask himself properly.

“Any idea if I’ve been spotted yet?” Stiles asks, thoughts running a mile a minute, going through his mental archive of spells and tricks he could use to escape.

Thankfully, Deaton shakes his head. “I haven’t been informed of it yet, and considering it was in my territory, they would be forced to tell me.”

Sometimes, Stiles is grateful for the strict laws the druids uphold- it gets him out of most of his trouble at times like these. At this point, all Stiles can really do is take Deaton’s suggestion of moving forward into account and figure out how to ingrain himself further into this world and make sure it doesn’t fall apart to shit.

Easier said than done but no one can withhold from giving Stiles a gold star for trying. 

* * *

  
Despite all the calculations Stiles had made about dangerous situations befalling his friends, he’d never put very much thought into natural danger.

Erica’s experiences a seizure that lands her in the hospital for a month and a half. Stiles visits her every day, often accompanied by Scott or Boyd or Isaac, depending on which one is free. Each time he visits he brings flowers, a new sarcastic get well card, and a box of chocolates that he knows Eric will indulge in when she’s feeling down.

It irks him, knowing that there is nothing he can do despite the magic running through his veins and the power he knows he holds. Stiles wants so badly to help her, to cure her of this wretchedness and see some of the Erica he knew bleed into her. Not to say that Stiles ever really liked the bitch Erica had been a lot of the time but it was better than this Erica, who looks sallow and wan, sitting thinly against the glaring white of the hospital bed sheets.

Despite how terrible she must feel, Erica offers him a smile, pale in comparison to her usual bright smiles but a smile nonetheless, and pats the spot next to her hip. Stiles rests the box of chocolate down on the table, tucking it just slightly near the flowers Scott had bought yesterday, before taking a seat.

“I wish I could help you,” Stiles whispers, clenching her hand in his own. “I really, really wish I could help you but I don’t think I can.”

Erica gives him a curious look and says, “Stiles, there’s nothing you can do to help me. Unless you’re some kind of medical genius who can cure me, I think it’s safe to say I’m stuck like this.”

After a beat of silence, Stiles lifts his eyes to look into hers. There’s something that looks a lot like longing in his eyes, and Erica wonders, not for the first time, why he looks at her- at all of them- as if his heart is breaking. That look, that familiar look, is not one she nor any of their friends want to see in his eyes. Stiles is supposed to be bright and sarcastic, coated with a layer of restlessness that sticks to him no matter his disposition.

Sometimes, though, sometimes there is nothing any of them can say to bring him back from the melancholy state he furls himself into. Not even Scott, his oldest friend, can do much aside from sit with Stiles shoulder to shoulder and keep him company.

So she doesn’t hesitate in squeezing his hand and telling him softly, vulnerably exposed in a way she has always despised,

“You do enough, just sitting here with me and talking.”

His smile is thin and tightlipped but it is there, peeking through the clouds just for her, and Erica finds that for now, it is enough. 

Hours later, when the sun is beginning to tire, Stiles phones Deaton.

“What limitations do sparks have?”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the phone. “Stiles, what brought this on?”

“Erica had another attack, it was… she’s in the hospital.” Harshly running a hand through his hair, Stiles paces the length of his bed. “I hate it, Deaton, I fucking hate it! What’s the point of sending someone to another universe if I just have to watch my friends fucking die all over again!”

“Stiles, events aren’t always set in stone, and they are certainly not the same in all dimensions.” Deaton’s voice is low, soothing; the voice Stiles knows he takes on when he’s speaking to skittish animals in the clinic. “Don’t worry, Ms. Reyes will be fine. Just get your bearings straight.”

Stiles’ goodbye is absentminded, and when the phone falls from his hand onto the bed he pays it no mind, instead dropping to the floor and reaching for the journal he placed in the hidden compartment in his drawer. There are little color stickers placed haphazardly on different pages, with words in his chicken scratch handwriting like ‘history’ or ‘magic structure’. He flips to the one entitled ‘belief’ and pours into it, thumbing over the page and thinking.

It’s a crazy, stupid, and potentially dangerous idea but there’s merit to it. At this point, Stiles is willing to take that chance, even if it’s not just his life that’s in the balance. 

* * *

  
When Erica gets out of the hospital, Stiles ambushes Isaac after Chemistry and tugs him along with an arm across the other boy’s shoulders.

“So, what d’ya want to do?” Stiles asks, unwrapping a piece of candy and pocketing it into his mouth. He offers one to Isaac but the other boy declines, looking slightly overwhelmed, which Stiles supposes is understandable and makes him want to kill Mr. Lahey even more than he did before this.

“You know we don’t have to do anything big, right? We just wanna hang out with you and have some fun.”

Isaac’s rigid posture softens a little at that, and, just for a second, he bumps his arm into Stiles’ side and lets it linger, the longest touch Isaac has ever willingly initiated.

“I never learned how to ride a bike,” Isaac extends an olive branch, and from the way Stiles lights up, he must have done the right thing.

“Dude seriously,” Stiles exclaims, tugging at Isaac to make him go faster. There’s a bounce in his step and he’s so excited he barrels straight into Boyd. “Woah, man, rock solid. Never mind, guys we’re teaching Isaac how to ride a bike!”

Scott, like Stiles, is befuddled but also enthusiastic. Erica smirks but reassures Isaac that it’ll be fine and that falling only really hurts in the beginning. Boyd, ever silent, simply offers Isaac a commiserating look and pats his back like they’re old friends.

It’s nice, Isaac muses, to be surrounded by people who expect nothing from you but your own happiness.

They pile into Stiles’ jeep- Roscoe, as he so affectionately calls it; he’s the only one of them that actually has a somewhat functional way of getting to and fro places, although Roscoe has worriedly fallen apart before.

Squished together, with Scott and Stiles in the front, and Erica lounging between Isaac and Boyd in the back, they play loud music and sing along despite their tone deafness. Stiles makes a pit stop at his house to get his bike, and it is, thankfully, not a mountain bike.

An hour later Isaac has fallen six times trying to ride the bike. They’re on Hale land, though Stiles assures them that they won’t be kicked off, and the ground is hard beneath him. Isaac lays there for a second, basking in the sun before he picks himself back up and straddles the bike again. Scott’s in front of him, holding the handlebars, while Stiles is at the back, keeping his hands light on Isaac’s back and ribs to help steady him.

It’s exhilarating, to be touched by someone and not feel the urge to flinch, because Isaac knows, deep down, that Stiles would never willingly hit him.

“One, two, three, go!”

And he’s off.

The ground is an unforgiving obstacle and Isaac struggles slightly, but he makes it all of 10 perilous feet (farther than his last try) before stumbling again. Behind him Erica gives a loud cheer, whooping delightedly, while the boys chant his name “Isaac! Isaac! Isaac!” over and over again loudly, their voices reaching the skies.

It is, with a doubt, the best moment in all of Isaac’s seventeen years. Here, with the Earthy smell in his nose and the bright hues of the forest in his mind, Isaac is finally at peace.

“Having fun?” A voice calls and Isaac stumbles into Scott as they all turn around, frightened and shocked.

Stiles remains unaffected and gives a bright grin, flinging an arm around Isaac’s shoulder, as he is so prone to do these days,

“Yup! Wanna join in, Creeper Wolf?”

The man- a Hale, Isaac’s mind supplies uselessly- smirks and bares his teeth in an imitation of a smile, though there is definite amusement there. “I think I’ll leave you to it,” He gives an appraising look at Stiles. “Talia would like to talk to you to discuss some things, and I think Laura is ready to burst and start stalking you.” He gives a sharp grin. “Again.”

There’s an inside joke there because Stiles shakes his head and rolls his eyes but nods solemnly to the man, who meanders away into the thick overgrowth, gone as if were never there to begin with.

They keep playing after that, but Isaac keeps one eye on their surroundings at all times, not willing to be sneaked up on.

Still, it is the most fun Isaac has had in years, creepy man notwithstanding.  
___________________  
Stiles ushers the other into the car before circling towards the back to place the bike. In the peripheral corner of his eyes, Stiles sees a shock of gold and tilts his head inconspicuously to look.

There, kneeling between the shrubbery, half hidden, is Kate fucking Argent.

Oh, my God, Stiles thinks, long-suffering. Of all the differences in this universe, Kate Argent couldn’t at least be dead already?

 


End file.
